


something’s changing (i can feel it)

by brophigenia



Series: kavinsky does the gangsey on fire [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Bad Decisions?, Blue on Fire, F/M, Gangsey On Fire, Gansey On Fire, Kavinsky Being Not Terrible, Kavinsky lives, Making Out, Pre-Threesome, let’s be real lmao, pre-trk, self care in the form of making out with Joseph Kavinsky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 09:45:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15240666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: “So,” Kavinsky drawls. “You want that ride or not, Madame Laveau?” She considers him, considers the heat between her legs, considers her nonexistent future.“Yeah,” she finally decides on, feeling dangerous. Feeling reckless and eighteen. Blue on fire. She tries it out, slides into it like an oversized jacket. Feels crueler, sharper, more dangerous. Her pink switchblade is in her pocket. Kavinsky’s throat is all thin skin and blue veins.(In the nebulous time between Blue Lily, Lily Blue and TRK there is Blue, suffering from existential angst, and there is Joseph Kavinsky, suffering from existential boredom. Who says Gansey’s the only one allowed to be on fire?)





	something’s changing (i can feel it)

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Tumblr for this. This is gonna be a series. Kavinsky is gonna do the whole Gangsey. Sorry for party rocking. 
> 
> Kavinsky didn’t die on the Fourth of July but everything is basically the same. Let’s pretend he’s had some time to grow up and become at least semi-aware of his own sleaze.

As the end of senior year approaches with no resolution either way on the Glendower front she only suffocates _more_ , wracked full of both indecision and despair, future plans shattering even as she’s mapping them out. _Not enough money, too far away,_ the reasons don’t matter so much as the _result_. She feels trapped in her own skin. Trapped in her desire for Gansey, trapped and unable to do anything about it.

Blue Sargent _roils_ beneath her skin.

She’s not planning to do anything about it, particularly. Mostly she thinks she’ll carry on until she can’t anymore, and then she’ll just internally combust. Become a pile of ash. _Here lies Blue Sargent, who died of poor life planning and unresolved sexual tension._

She’s not planning to do anything about it, and so she’s not on her guard when she’s walking out of Nino’s on a Tuesday night smelling like fried food and feeling like she got run over by a _truck._

“Hey duchess,” it’s a nasally voice, nasty and Jersey-tinged. She knows it immediately and stiffens even before she turns to see Joseph Kavinsky, scuzziest of all the Raven Boys, kidnapper of Matthews and defiler of _everything—_ men, women, livestock, _Ronan_.

She rolls her eyes, keeps walking, and is actually mildly surprised when he jogs after her, keeping pace easily as she goes to unlock her bike.

“You want a ride somewhere, Witchy Witch?” She can’t help her snort then, glaring at him balefully.

“ _Really?”_ Surprisingly, this makes him laugh. A genuine kind of laugh, not a fuckboy chuckle— like he’s not done it in a while. It transforms his face, makes him uncomfortably human instead of the sharp-edged druglord mobster monster she’d cast him as, the few times she’d bothered considering it at all.

“Here,” he pulls his phone out, something high-tech and _shiny,_ scraped to pieces from jangling carelessly in the pocket of his tight jeans amongst who knew what— lighters and pill bottles and razor blades and used needles and rolled-up hundred dollar bills, probably. Before she can protest he’s snapping a selfie of the two of them, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his eyes _wicked._

The Blue-in-the-picture looks startled, rosy-mouthed, unlike herself. She wonders if that’s a regular thing, around Kavinsky. She watches him text it to Gansey, following up with **gonna give ur townie a ride home fuckerrrrr.**

He turns it off before there’s a reply; Blue imagines Gansey opening the text, imagines his _reaction,_ wonders if she’s hallucinating the flare of warmth between her legs at the thought of him _furious._ Furious the way Ronan makes him, _GanseyOnFire,_ a beast even more mythical than anything else they’ve found or heard about.

“So,” Kavinsky drawls. “You want that ride or not, Madame Laveau?” She considers him, considers the heat between her legs, considers her nonexistent future.

“Yeah,” she finally decides on, feeling dangerous. Feeling reckless and eighteen. _Blue on fire._ She tries it out, slides into it like an oversized jacket. Feels crueler, sharper, more dangerous. Her pink switchblade is in her pocket. Kavinsky’s throat is all thin skin and blue veins.

She isn’t afraid of him. “You’re carrying my bike, though.” She unlocks it for him, waits with her eyebrow cocked, feeling absurd on the one hand (like Orla) and powerful on the other (like Orla.)

He laughs again, this time a little lower, smokier. His throat works with it. He slings her bike over his shoulders like it weighs nothing. He’s all bone and lean muscle, sinewy. _Built for sin,_ like some cliched old punk rock song.

Watching him walk her bike to his red Mitsubishi —a real car, not a dream one, a new model Evo to replace the one from the disastrous Fourth— fills her with more of that strange power. There was something _satisfying_ about getting someone like Joseph Kavinsky to do your bidding, she realized. Someone willful and powerful himself. Someone like Gansey.

She imagines giving Gansey orders and almost jackknifes from the bolt of arousal that goes through her stomach, swoopy and startling.

She feels the urge to jog to catch up with Kavinsky and forces herself not to— goes at her own pace. Makes him _wait._ His hands are absurdly careful when they put her bike in the trunk. He doesn’t open the passenger side door for her but the look he gives her when she slides in is both gleeful and _considering._

“You ever break a hundred in a thirty five?”

She presses the back of her head against the headrest and only whoops with excitement when he peels out of the Nino’s parking lot, windows down and music up.

It’s something entirely separate from rides in the Pig with Gansey, though theoretically it shouldn’t be. Both situations involve a fast car and a Raven Boy and the cover of darkness.

Kavinsky isn’t looking at her soulfully and longingly and _frustratedly,_ though. He’s not looking at her like he wants her so bad he’ll die. He’s not laying his overcoat over her legs. He’s not doing anything but swinging them wildly through the streets of Henrietta, shouting joyful curse words along to the electronic mess of noise spilling from his speakers, shooting her looks like he’s trying to show off and he wants to see her reaction.

“Fuck!” He bellows, carefree as anything even with the shadows in his eyes.

It sounds like it helps. She decides to try it— she screams _fuck fuck fuck!_ and he only cheers her on, grin flashing white in the dark, illuminated by the streetlights and the bluish glow from the dash.

It does help. Like she’s letting out some of the _burning_ trapped in her stomach, in her lungs. Kavinsky whips the car so quickly they start to spin out and still it doesn’t _matter,_ she’s not scared, there’s nothing that can scare her anymore. Gansey is going to die and she loves him and her father hides in closets instead of _speaking_ to her and her mother acts like it’s _okay_ that she went off alone and Persephone is _dead_ and there’s something wrong with Noah and Gansey is going to _die_ and she doesn’t realize she’s crying until Kavinsky smacks something on his radio and the music abruptly cuts off, leaving her ears ringing.

“You having a nervous breakdown, duchess?” He doesn’t sound particularly alarmed, more like he doesn’t care. It’s strangely refreshing.

She shakes her head and laughs a little, wetly. “Not really. Yes. I don’t know.” He nods slowly, lights up a cigarette. He offers it to her and she shakes her head.

“You ever got head in a car?” Kavinsky says it so _casually,_ but with an edge like he _knows._ Like he somehow knows that _no_ she has _not_ there has been _nothing_ and she doesn’t love him, could never— and that is what finally convinces her.

Her hands shake. She sees the Page of Cups behind her eyelids, willing her on.

Instead of answering, she surges across the center console and kisses him. He tastes like sugar and tobacco smoke and staleness, like he’s not eaten in a long time. He’s a good kisser, twining the fingers of his left hand into her hair. Her hairpins rain down around them, wrenched from place. He’s _warm._ It’s nothing like kissing Noah, Kavinsky is _alive_ and _warm_ and he’s done this before.

And she can’t kill him, because Joseph Kavinsky is not her soulmate. Not her _true love._ Gods.

He doesn’t live up to his implied offer of _head;_ they make out, lushly, and it means _nothing_ but it also means _everything_ because finally Blue can _breathe._ Like screaming earlier, making out with Kavinsky makes her stress level plummet. She can have this. She can do this.

Not everything is life or death, Henrietta or the world, telling Gansey or letting him walk into his own death unknowingly.

Some things are just making out with Joseph Kavinsky under a broken streetlight in his blood red car, letting him lay his hand over her left breast so he can feel her heartbeat.

She pulls back eventually, when she feels as good as she’s going to. He drives her home then, and feathers his fingers up her skirt before she gets out of the car, grinning nastily and saying nasally _bye, duchess._

It’s okay. Everything is strange and fucked up, but it’s okay.

She walks her bike up the darkened steps, expecting some _looks_ when she gets inside. She does not expect Gansey, sitting in the corner of their rickety porch in the dark with the Pig nowhere to be found.

“Jane,” he says, tone strange. Hoarse. Boyish, but also _not._ “Blue. What’s going on?”


End file.
